How to travel like an IB mum

You might have spotted her on a flight, clad in Chanel and carrying a Birkin made of some exotic animal skin, taking her children in First-Class comfort to Denmark for football camp, to Seychelles for a scuba-diving trip or for an art workshop in a small town outside Paris. This formidably fashionable woman I speak of is the IB mum, a highly evolved species that is now emerging in India.

Ever since International Baccalaureate schools dropped anchor in our country, most big cities began to have two summers. One belonged to parents of children in the time-tested ICSE/CBSE schools, and the other, to IB parents.

As it turns out, the life of an IB parent is very different from that of parents from other curriculums. Should life ever give you the opportunity to eavesdrop on conversations at the gates outside an IB school, especially before vacations, this is the nature of banter that you will be privy to:

“Babe, so am I seeing you in London this summer?”

“Hey babe, can you tell me where in Capri you got those lovely handmade flip-flops?”

“You have to try this restaurant in NYC—it is the last word. Oh, but make sure you get AmEx to book you a table right away. It’s just impossible to get a reservation there on short notice, babe.”

I recently bumped into a quintessential IB mum on a flight back from Europe—a tall, lissome woman clacking across the airport in high-heeled boots. To me, the most stylish aspect of this woman wasn’t her bag or her shoes, but her three children, because three, as everyone knows, is the new two (less than three kids means that you are the proletariat and, well, you’re not doing well enough to afford more). Her children appeared extremely polite and very Downton Abbey in their deportment, while my voluble brood was walking around the airport with me, testing various perfumes and make-up while I made my usual duty-free purchases that lose their allure seconds after I have unpacked them from their cartons at home. On the plane, I noticed the IB mum eat her meal delicately and sleep elegantly while I devoured everything that was served to me and watched Modern Family late into the night, allowing my eye bags to surface and settle comfortably on my face.

In the morning, when we landed in Mumbai, she looked fresh as a daisy with Kim Kardashian hair while I had to make do with bed head—not the fashionable kind that you acquire with much effort and hair products at chic salons, but the kind that simply says you’re too lazy to brush out the tangles. She looked like someone expecting paparazzi outside the airport, and I had the appearance of a felon about to be received by the Interpol.

Don’t get me wrong, I deeply admire and am in awe of these women—I wish I had the nerve to pick posh over comfortable before a flight. (And yes, I know that in admitting this, I run the risk of revealing my age, for comfort over fashion is the hallmark of a woman fast approaching middle age.)

Sartorial sense aside, IB mums are smart travellers and book their theatre, restaurant and park tickets months in advance. An IB mum does not travel to a destination—she arrives at one.

Most IB mums I know don’t do Asia in June–July because Asia is for long weekends. Summer is special, and it will be sacrilegious to spend it in a destination that can be reached in less than nine flying hours. And so it is that they will throw in a bit of each continent, one on this side of the Pacific and one on the other so that they can incorporate history, culture and barbarianism materialism (read America) into their children’s summer holiday. Once she checks the box against Europe, the IB mum can indulge in guilt-free shopping in America and return to India with multiple pieces of luggage, at least one of which contains organic food for her kids.

But don’t for a minute think that they have it easy, these mums. The class system and rules in the IB community are as stringent as the ones in medieval India. These mums can broadly be classified into haves and have-nots, the former being, obviously, the minority and therefore sequestered towards the upper end of the pyramid. The ‘haves’ own private jets, while the ‘have-nots’ have to make do with privately run airlines and live in the hope of cultivating friendships of the ‘haves’.

There are further sub-classifications in the echelons of IB society. For instance, some families manage to travel to the US armed with their domestic help, while the less privileged ones can only manage Schengen visas for their nannies. Is there anything that can match the comfort of having your own maid from India in Manhattan? Imagine having to do all that shopping on Broadway and Fifth Ave without having to cart tiny babies around in their buggies?

So her first option is to make social inroads into the consulate circles and find a dignified way to befriend the American Consul General. (I am assuming that any self-respecting IB mum will obviously have the wherewithal to get her help a passport, hence shall not expend word count on that minor detail.) If that doesn’t work, her next step is to research and speak to other mums who have managed American visas for their children’s nannies.

As I write this, a dear friend and IB mum is pacing the length and breadth of her house like an expectant father waiting outside a maternity ward. Her young help is at the VFS office for her American visa interview, and my friend’s anxiety is at its peak. I can just picture her, rosary beads in hand, praying for the visa to come through.

I interrupt this column to check on her only to discover that I have been invited to a last-minute bash at her place tonight. The maid has been granted a US visa, and we are to toast to this amazing news. So excuse me while I figure out what to do with my bed head to make myself befittingly presentable for the occasion.

Shunali Khullar Shroff is a popular blogger and keeps a blog called Mumbai Musings. She has also authored Battle Hymn of a Bewildered Mother, published by Hay House, 2015. The book is available at all leading book stores. Get your copy here.